


Signed, Sealed, Delivered

by phipiohsum475



Series: Serial Suicides [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accident, Angst, Depression, Grief, M/M, Parentlock, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:05:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3519926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years later, Greg would never forget the exact moment he received the call. He supposed it wasn’t one of those things one ever truly forgot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - There is major depression and suicide in this fic. Please don't read if this bothers you. I like you, and I want you to be okay.
> 
> Thank you majorly to [Type_40_Consulting_Detective](http://archiveofourown.org/users/type_40_consulting_detective) for the awesome beta!

Greg refreshed his mug at the still hot pot in the station’s kitchen. Coffee was always hot in the mornings, which was the nicest thing he could say about it. He’d finished the last of the good stuff on his way in. John made a delicious cup of dark roast with a touch of cream, just the way he liked it. He sat, logged into the network, and opened his email. The messages loaded; he opened one from Anderson, another bitch about a missing piece of evidence Sherlock likely had. An earring; just one with a diamond and sapphire set into white gold. Greg saw the way Sherlock’s eyes gleamed when he saw it. He took a note to go by Baker St later. He’d have a nice chat with Victor, and they’d have the item back before the close of the case.

The green pen was still in his hand when his mobile rang. He lined it up parallel to the notepad, and answered, “Lestrade.”

“Is this Gregory Lestrade, husband of John Watson?” a voice asked seriously, and Greg’s heart started to hammer.

“Yeah, is he okay?” Greg asked, standing and walking out of his office as he spoke. The trill in his voice swiveled Sally’s head, but he didn’t have the processing power to wave her off.

“My name is Cameron Roberts, I’m a nurse at St. Barts. Your husband was involved in an accident. Please hurry.”

Greg ran down the steps in lieu of waiting for the elevator, “Is he alive?!”

“Yes, but we’re not sure for how much longer. We’re doing everything we can.”

Greg hung up unceremoniously, knowing that they’d not tell him any more until he showed up. He’d seen it too many times with victims and their families.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the ubiquitous black car idling; he didn’t know if he could drive right now.  Mycroft would also know exactly what happened and likely John’s current state. He could have kissed Sherlock’s brother right now for his meddlesome irritating ways.

Greg climbed in the back and his breath caught at the look on Mycroft’s face. The stoic man rarely showed anything resembling real emotion, but in the ten years he’d known the politician, Greg could read between the fine lines – the way Mycroft’s mouth cringed, the dip of his brow, the lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes. Mycroft nodded sternly and greeted him, “Detective Inspector.”

“What the hell happened?” Greg demanded, and Mycroft looked grim.

“He tripped. Fell in front of an oncoming car in the Underground.”

Greg’s heart dropped out of his chest, taking his breath with it. This wasn’t a heart attack or being shot. This was decimating, full body, extensive trauma. Agony radiated from the empty hole where his heart had been and wetness burned his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair and pulled tightly, trying to determine if the pain he felt was real; if this could really be happening. He stared up at Mycroft; eyes wide, disbelieving and wet, unable to ask what he needed most to know.

Mycroft understood, and continued, “There was an intense amount of trauma. The surgeons have done what they can. He’s…” and Mycroft paused.

Greg looked up to see Mycroft searching for his next words. Seeing Mycroft, diplomat extraordinaire, speechless, broke the dam and tears fell hard down Greg’s face.

“He’s not gonna make it, is he?” Greg wiped his eyes pointlessly, his vision blurred and voice cracking.

Mycroft offered a stiff pat to Greg’s shoulder, and answered simply, “No.”

Greg sobbed a few moments and then choked out, “The boys?”

“My assistant is picking them up from school. They’ll meet you at the hospital. I thought it best that you decide how they receive the news.”

Greg nodded, and then wept anew when he realized that he’d have to tell his children that their Dad was dying.

-o-

Greg rushed to John’s side when he entered the hospital room. John lay supine, the bed partially inclined, eyes closed, face swollen and bruised. His form beneath the blankets showed they’d removed a leg in their attempts to save him. The hissing and wheezing of the machines told Greg that John was alive; but only because of the machines. His eyes burned but he pushed on them, attempting to hold his composure.

He grasped his husband’s hand, warm but limp, and looked the nurse, “Can I… can I hug him? Kiss him? Is it… okay?”

The nurse nodded, and Greg gulped hard, trying to keep from crying again. He bent down and gently placed his arms around the man he’d loved for fifteen years, the father of his children, the beautiful blonde doctor who captured his affections from the moment he realized the soldier had shot a serial killer to protect a man he’d just met.

It made so little sense at the time; why would he be entranced by someone who broke the law? And took a life while doing it? But this man, his John, he was so unassuming, protective, stable. To watch him match wits with Sherlock Holmes, hold his own and smile while doing it; Greg fell fast and he fell hard.

Greg shed a few more tears as he kissed softly into the small patch of blond grey hairs not covered by bandages and gauze. He looked up, and saw Sherlock waiting, eyes tired and dry. Greg saw the emotions in his sharp features, aching to get out, but too unpracticed to break Sherlock’s rigid façade. Sherlock’s hand brushed back and forth almost indiscernible against Victor’s, a sign that both Greg and Victor recognized for the distress it indicated.

Mycroft opened the door and leaned in, “Detective Inspector, Wills and Rhys are outside.”

Greg kissed John against and squeezed his hand. He rubbed his eyes with his other hand in an attempt to dry them, and then nodded.

-o-

Greg severely underestimated his ability to maintain control when faced with the worried and confused looks of his twin boys.  He broke down again and collapsed into the hard plastic chair behind him.

Rhys spoke first “Papa-“ he choked, “What’s wrong with Dad?”

Greg looked up at the oldest of his boys. Rhys didn’t have the Watson stoicism; he inherited the Lestrade heart on the sleeve. The teen’s eyes were damp, and his face contorted as though he’d personally been stabbed in the lungs. He gasped and struggled for breath while forcing himself to keep calm. Greg always compared Rhys’ feelings to the steady flow of the ever erupting Hawaiian volcano, Kilauea, he and John’d seen on their honeymoon, fixed and constant.

Wills, on the other hand, looked nearly dead, face stony and grim. His eyes were dry, but his jaw was tight, a familiar look of stress. He’d been to the dentist before for the grinding that damaged his teeth. His rage and concern were all internal, so deep many didn’t realize it existed. If Rhys was Kilauea, then Wills was Pompeii.

Greg took a deep breath and looked up, “Dad was in an accident, on the Underground. He fell onto tracks and was hit by a train car. The doctors did everything they could. He’s… “ Greg’s throat closed and he coughed and gasped until he could take a proper breath again. “He’s still with us now, but he’s not going to make it.”

Rhys collapsed into Greg, body wracking with sobs. Wills fists clenched to match his jaw, and his intermittent tears began to fall. Not even the Watson stoicism could withstand such a crushing blow. Greg gathered both the young men in his arms; together they held tight to each other, like drowning men on to a lifeboat, each hoping the others would keep him afloat.

After a minute or so, Mycroft, looking supremely uncomfortable, tapped Greg on the shoulder. Greg turned to see Mycroft nod his head towards John’s room.

“He’s still on the machines,” Greg’s hoarse voice informed them, “If you want to say good-bye.”

Both Rhys and Wills nodded, and Greg led them into the room. Rhys cut back a wail, then draped himself over his Dad. Wills walked around to the other side, where he could hold his Dad’s hand without disrupting his twin. Rhys murmured broken sobs over his father’s body, whispered confessions and admissions, and Wills kneeled down, manipulated his father’s casted fingers so that they held his jaw. He closed his eyes, just letting his Dad’s last touch soothe him.

Sherlock and Victor stayed silent in the corner, until the John’s doctor arrived. “I’m Dr. Augustus, John’s doctor. May I speak with just the family, please,” he requested. Victor and Mycroft stood to go, but Sherlock remained. Greg glared at him, with puffy bloodshot eyes, and the doctor, familiar with such tensions, repeated, “Just the family, please, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock huffed, and took Victor’s outstretched hand, and allowed his partner to lead him out of the room behind Mycroft.

“John is being kept alive solely by machines at the moment. He’s showing no signs of brain activity, and will only deteriorate physically from here.” Dr. Augustus spoke softly with an even keel. “Do you understand?”

Greg, Rhys, and Wills all nodded, and the doctor passed around a box of tissues. He addressed Greg directly, “I know it is a sensitive issue, but has your husband made clear his stance on organ donation?”

Greg sobbed and covered his mouth, but nodded through the stifled bawl. He sniffed, then blew his nose on the offered tissue. “He always wanted his organs donated. And, um, his corpse to go to Sherlock.”

The doctor froze for half a moment, but recovered nicely, “I’m not entirely I can accommodate the later request, but your husband’s heart, and one of his kidneys can save two lives. I appreciate what a difficult decision this must be, and I thank you.”

Greg shook his head, “Talk to Mycroft – the bloke with the umbrella. He’ll get you what you need. His body goes to Sherlock.”

Wills and Rhys both nodded their heads in clear agreement, their father had discussed this before. Several times in the last few years. The thought didn’t bother them anymore, even though they balked at first.  

“We will keep his body on life support until it’s time for the organ retrieval. Should only be a few hours. Do you want to stay here until then?”

Greg looked to his boys, and they both nodded. “Yes, please,” he answered.

“I can send someone with tea if need be?” the Dr. Augustus offered.

“Some tea would be great,” Greg responded. He didn’t know if they’d drink it, but wanted it available for Wills and Rhys should need be. They were growing boys, just thirteen. He bit his lip, looking down at his sons.He didn’t know how they’d make it through this.

-o-

Greg, Wills and Rhys stood by John’s side, until the last moment, when the doctor turned off the machines. They held his hands, and kissed him goodbye as his body finally shut down.

Mycroft’s car was available when they left the hospital, the man himself in the car, understanding the necessity of his personal presence. The ride was silent, until just five minutes out from their home. Mycroft coughed softly, and Greg took note, “I’d like to offer my services for the funeral. You have to care for yourself and your children. Would you be willing to accept my help?”

 _The funeral. Fuck_ , Greg hung his head. He’d forgotten entirely about the funeral. About letting people know, invitations, catering, cemeteries. His heart began to pound and his breath came quicker. Here he thought that John’s death was the end, but there was so much more. His panic rose until he processed Mycroft’s offer. To take the planning; the rigid schedules and rules and social etiquette off his plate.

“Thank you,” Greg’s voice dripped thickly, barely able to escape his throat. He felt as though he was drowning in molasses, being crushed from the outside, buried alive, nails hammered in his skull. Both his boys cuddled into him; their adolescent bravado demeanor broken now, in private, and the scared little boys needing their Papa breaking through.


	2. Chapter 2

A week after the funeral, Greg drove the boys to their first appointment with a therapist. Victor was a board certified psychiatrist, and recommended a practitioner who could help the boys process their grief.  He drove them, checking them in and waiting for them to go back. The intake appointment would take two hours, the secretary informed him, and offered to get him some tea. Greg thanked her, but went to the pub ‘round the corner instead. It might not be the healthiest release, but what the hell was he supposed to do? Art therapy? A support group of other grieving, sobbing widows and widowers?

He’d rather a pint of John’s favorite ESB and his husband’s memory.

Besides, his mother was picking the up boys from therapy. He could get blindly drunk and catch a cab home if he wanted.

Half a pint in, he released it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to go home, lay in bed, and breath in the last of John’s scent before it disappeared, escaping his reaches forever. He couldn’t even chug the last few ounces, his throat was closed and painful. He passed a note to the barkeep with a nod and walked out.

The door to their flat was ajar, and Greg warily opened the door further. He heard manic steps on the floor above him and groaned. Sherlock’s gait was nearly unmistakable. Just as he realized the identity of his intruder, the man himself bounded down the stairs.

Sherlock eyes were aflame, and he snarled, “You idiot!”

Greg startled; he was used to Sherlock’s ire, but had nothing left in him to cope with it. Not in this moment, as they both mourned. He swallowed his rage, and quietly admonished, “Fuck off, Sherlock. Not now.”

“No! This is your fault! YOU killed him!”

Greg’s restraint dissipated instantly, “You utter _fucking_ arsehole. My husband just fucking died, and you’re blaming me? Do you think I pushed him in front of the goddamned train? What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!”

Sherlock didn’t falter in the face of Greg’s wrath. He tossed a stack of papers through the room, “Do you know what these are? His prescriptions. Thirteen months of unfilled antidepressants! Did you even know he was depressed?”

“Of course I fucking knew!” Greg turned viciously on Sherlock. He knew John’d been seeing a therapist. But he didn’t realize John hadn’t been filling the prescriptions. What the fuck sort of husband was he? What else did he miss? He felt bile rise in his throat.

“And these?” Sherlock thrust more documents in Greg’s direction. “Eight months ago, John tripled his life insurance. Added an accidental life rider. An extra million paid out if he died in an _accident_.”

Greg froze and his legs gave out,  barely landing on the edge the sofa before hitting the hardwood floor. He didn’t even look at Sherlock, couldn’t stomach it. “Oh God.” Sherlock’s revelations showed that John planned this for months. He’d known he’d wanted to die. He refused treatment; he planned while Greg thought everything was fine.

Greg nearly whispered, “The cane.”

“What?” Sherlock scoffed.

“The cane, you dolt. Didn’t notice, did you?” Greg stood, getting angry again. “He’s been using the cane for the last two months.”

“Why? I fixed that years ago.” Sherlock dismissed, but a hitch in his voice told Greg he’d succeeded in catching the brilliant detective off guard.

“No, you fucking didn’t. His limp has been growing for nearly a year now.” Greg corrected cruelly. “In fact, ever since you started bringing Victor to crime scenes instead. Ever since you started just texting John for the occasional consult. Since you stopped bringing a doctor to solve cases, and opted for the pretty boy shrink you were fucking.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, but he kept silent.

Greg took a step, letting his words grow vicious. “If anything, this is your fault. He was your bloody best friend at one point. For eight years, you lived together; you went everywhere together. He was your friend, your companion, and you flung him aside for the first exotic twink that came along. For all your derision of sentiment, you certainly let it rule your bloody head.”

Greg shot a vicious glare as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest the sentimental accusation. The fury in Greg’s eyes snapped Sherlock’s mouth shut before he could utter a word.

Greg paced the room, and picked up a glass skull that once held liquor. Sherlock bought it for their wedding; wanting John to have his own skull once he moved in with Greg. Greg’s voice rose to near screaming, “ _You_ abandoned him. The first hint of obsession with Victor, and _you_ stopped calling John for cases, stopped asking for his input, stopped recognizing how much better that man made you, made _everyone_!” Greg flung the glass skull at Sherlock’s feet, making the detective jump aside as the glass shattered across the floor.

Greg hollered, even more loudly, neighbors be damned, “I hope Victor was fucking worth it, you toff bloody ponce. You will _never_ see another one of my crime scenes. Go to hell, and get the fuck out of my life. Don’t you _dare_ come back here and don’t you _dare_ ever talk to me about my husband again.” Greg reached for the next closest item. He flung the lamp at Sherlock, and it bounced off the skinny twat’s pelvis and fractured as it hit the ground.

Sherlock attempted to scowl at him, but found an unpredictable rage on Greg’s face he’d never seen before. He wisely decided to wordlessly stomp out of the flat like a temperamental toddler.

Greg fell to his knees, a few shards of the broken skull cutting into his flesh, and felt his soul leak onto the floor beneath him. Stupidly, he felt like Humpty Dumpty, broken and splintered, and unable to be put back together again. How had he missed John’s suffering? How had he not noticed the unfilled prescriptions? How could he have failed John so badly?

-o-

Anthea brought Mycroft his mail, and he startled at the sight of familiar handwriting. Mycroft Holmes, the address began, and it was sent to his office at the Diogenes. He took a breath, and opened the stuffed envelope. One letter was directed to him, and there were two others. One to Greg, and another to Sherlock. Mycroft read his own, ignoring the other two.

He sighed, the short note making his instructions clear. He folded it shut and picked up the other two. John might suspect he’d read them, but Mycroft felt a sort of respect for the dead, as useless as the sentiment was. He called up his car, and made his decision.

He knocked on Greg’s door, and the silver haired man, faced etched deep with grief, answered after several knocks. “I received several letters today. This one has been designated for you.” He passed the sealed letter to Greg, and excused himself. If it was what he thought it was, there was no reason for him to stay.

> _Greg, my love,_
> 
> _I know you must be upset right now, and I’d apologize, but truthfully, we both know you are better off without me. You are wonderful, phenomenal, fantastic, and I love you with all my heart. But you are the better parent; Wills and Rhys need you. I’m just a substitute. You might be heartbroken right now, but with time you’ll realize I was only dragging you down. I only prevented you from bigger and better things. You’d be Chief, if it weren’t for me and my inability to function like a human being. I am weak; you needed someone stronger. You deserved so much more than me, here’s your chance._
> 
> _I’m sorry for leaving you alone, but you probably know by now that I’ve been setting up insurance for a while. You should be covered; you could even send the boys to public school and Barts if you wanted. This is more than I could have given them in life. This is how I can be a good father to them._
> 
> _I sent this to Mycroft; he’ll be able to keep this from the insurance companies. You won’t be left wanting, I promise._
> 
> _Please don’t tell the boys.Better they think I died in a tragic accident, then know me for the failure I was._
> 
> _I’m sorry. I loved you always, in life and in death._
> 
> _John_

-o-

Mycroft didn’t bother knocking on Sherlock’s door, just left the note in the mail slot. Sherlock would understand what it was, and why it was there. Mycroft didn’t think he could handle Sherlock’s scathing commentary right now.

Victor picked up the mail on the way in an hour later, and dropped the letter on Sherlock’s chest. When he came out from his mind palace, whenever that might be, he wouldn’t miss it there.

> _Sherlock,_
> 
> _Don’t blame Greg. And don’t let him blame you. I’m happy you found someone. Victor’s good for you. Some things just don’t go away. Some feelings never really leave you. You saved me for so long; and you introduced me to Greg. I loved you both, though in such different ways. You showed me how much I had left to live for, you introduced me to the love of my life. I had children, danger, excitement, pride, because of you._
> 
> _It’s only fitting that Victor give you the same. Don’t let Greg tell you otherwise._
> 
> _Don’t hurt Greg. He’ll have enough on his plate. He’s a good Papa; he’s so much better for our boys than I was. Victor is so much better for you than I was._
> 
> _I’ve served my purpose now, outlived my usefulness._
> 
> _Thank you for giving me utility as long as you did._
> 
> _John_

-o-

Mycroft came back to his office, and picked up his own letter. He read it once more.

> _Mycroft,_
> 
> _You’ve been like brother to me for years. Annoying, overbearing, but always protective and reliable. And I’d ask you one last favor, if not for me, then for Greg and the boys. It was all on purpose; the insurance plan, the cane, the trip over the edge. I outlived my usefulness, and it was time to let go._
> 
> _Can you ensure that the insurance company doesn’t discover my intent? I want the best for Greg and my boys. You can protect them. Please do._
> 
> _It’s my only request from you._
> 
> _Please protect my family._
> 
> _John_

Mycroft caressed the letter one last time, and tossed it into the fire. He couldn’t pretend to understand, but he knew he’d protect John’s family till his own dying breath.


End file.
